


cartography

by carrionqueen (nightquill)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Inquisition Spoilers, Dragon Age Spoilers, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquill/pseuds/carrionqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an ever-expanding collection of short solavellan fics, featuring my feryn lavellan and, of course, the asshole dread wolf himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. clear nights

**Author's Note:**

> this will be spoiler-y for the solas romance arc and for the general content of dragon age inquisition. you've been waaarned xo

feryn catches the moth within the cage of her fingers. it is grey; soft and scared, it flits haphazardly from her palm to her digits. she guides it carefully from the lantern.

" _vhenan_ \- " he murmurs, but his eyelids flicker. he's still asleep. she eases herself away from him, out from their nest of blankets and furs, to the window where a cold breeze filters in. it's a kiss from the mountains. she lets it feather across her throat, the moth dusting its own soft kisses along the length of her fingers as she releases it into the moonlight. skyhold is quiet.

stars wink at her, and she marks out the constellations - judex, toth, fenrir. she knows them all by heart now, can trace them on the freckles of his skin when he is sleeping. she wonders if he knows that is what she is drawing when her fingers mark out the lines and shapes.

then, solas presses a kiss to the nape of her neck and she is startled by his closeness, by the sudden flood of warmth against her back. he had risen so quietly, come so softly to her. arms threading around her waist, fingers smoothing their way between hers, breath like hot steam against her ear - "beautiful," he murmurs, and feryn smiles.

"i love clear nights, when you can see them as bright as this," she gazes up and out.

his chuckle is warm, warm, warm. it's honey over river-stones, the promise of thunder. she melts into him, squeezes his arms tight about her belly. his lips are on her ear when he finally says, "i was talking about you, but, the stars do add to the picture,"

her cheeks begin to glow but she's not embarrassed. no, the glow is something more like pride. she twists, spinning in his arms, presses a wet kiss into the cleft of his chin. "did you dream, beloved?"

"of course." solas rests his chin atop her head, holding her close, holding her like she'll slip away on the mountain's breath if he looses his grip.

"of what?" she can hear the smile in his voice. she does not need to see his mouth to picture it, the sly curve of his lips, the most vivid smile her mind will ever chronicle - he murmurs when he speaks. his hands brush aside her hair, his lips feather her forehead -

"i dreamed of you. only, when i woke, i found that the real thing was much sweeter."


	2. bittergreen

_i waited._

her voice is still. he expects accusations, vitriol, brimstone, but she gives him nothing. it’s a shame. the fire he could have handled, but the ice…

 _i waited. here._ her lips aren’t moving. he cannot help but smile at her mastery of this place, _his_ place. when he finally dares to meet her eyes, the fade _falls away_ and suddenly they are in skyhold, again, a flurry of light about them as the fade’s false sun filters through warped stained glass. and out _there_ , the black city.

his surprise must have shown, because she laughs, lips parting, soft petals and a wet tongue, framed in deadly, white teeth. _who of us is the wolf, again?_

"by the looks of things, da’vhenan, you could have sought me out without much trouble," he gestures. the clarity of the dream is testament to her command over it - over the fade. and from a woman without a scrap of magic.

feryn’s eyes flash bittergreen. “what else was i to do with my time, _vhenan_ , but practice? i have become good at dreaming, solas. i have become very good.”

he studies her face. her lips are darker, eyes bruised and purple, worn with sleep. her hands tremble even in their dream. there are bruises on them, too. he catches them, kisses them, wonders if her smell is real or a machination of the fade.

"ma sa’lath. ma vhenan. ma da’era," he whispers the words like a rite, his lips pressing into her palms. she is still like a priestess, her face a marble facade, lashes brushing her cheeks as she closes her eyes to him. "i should not have left you. i should never have left _you_.”

but he will not apologize. she would hear nothing of it, anyway - her eyes are hard when they open again, and were he less than a god he would have crumbled beneath them. instead, he draws her in, kisses her brow, slides a thumb along her bottom lip. 

"solas, i waited for you." she whispers it into his chest, her nose icy in the dip of his throat. he rests his chin on her head and smiles.

"and i came back."


	3. beginnings, memories, fate

**1.** she is six years old, and the halla called _whimsy_ reminds her to be gentle with the wisps lest she scare them off. feryn nods intently, a solemn promise on her lips to be as careful as can be, but she still dances around the grove. she’s chasing butterflies of blue light and wondering _where they go_ when she wakes.

**2.** she is nine, and her father would be _furious_ if he knew she still spent time with the spirit of whimsy and the wisp named ‘kiss’. but he’s not to know her dreams, and whimsy is a mother halla, really, watching her learn and guiding her to safer parts of the fade. “try not to watch the black city, little fern,” whimsy tells her, and the knot in feryn’s stomach loosens a little as she turns away. 

**3.** she is thirteen and a half, and the wolf’s silhouette is still there. this is the ninth night. he is prowling about the ruins; though, perhaps prowling is the wrong word. it’s a purposeful stride. feryn wants to ask him who he is but whimsy gently tugs at her sleeve, leads her to a pond of rainbow wishes.

"each one is tied to a penny and tossed in a pool," whimsy explains as they stir the surface, but for once, feryn is not listening.

**4.** “i did not mean to disturb you,” her voice is quiet, and she is sixteen years old. the wolf is different, his shape more frayed, the ruins unfriendly - and she can’t quite _see_ him. somehow his edges bleed into the fade. when she is looking away, it seems he is almost a man. he says nothing, gives _nothing_ , but walks away on silent paws.

"little fern, do not follow him," says whimsy. 

**5.** the wolf sits atop a stone spire, closer to the black city than she cares to dream of, and it’s her seventeenth birthday. he does not look, and she does not see him again. 


End file.
